Too Dangerous to Desire (23 page)

She frowned. “Are we in danger?”

Cameron looked back at the yacht. It was now close enough that he could make out several figures on the bow, working to raise another sail.
Damnation.
Some members of Morton’s crew must have been working in the boathouse, for the boat looked to be well manned.

“No, not us. We’ve a shallow keel, but our pursuers do not.” He altered course. “Can you hold the tiller steady while I tighten the mainsail sheets? We need go a few knots faster…”

Dark water foamed over the rail as the sloop heeled over and picked up speed. Wind whipped through the rigging, spray whirled in the chill air, the salt and rain stinging his face.

“They are still gaining,” called Sophie.

“All we have to do is cross the reef ahead of them. Unless they are utter fools, they will have to come about, and in this wind, it will take them quite a while to tack around the danger. By the time they do, we will be well away and can lose ourselves in the storm.”

A gust buffeted her sideways, but she clung resolutely to the tiller.

Do I dare trim the sail any more?
Cameron slanted a look upward. Already the mast was bowing from the strain. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” he muttered, hauling in another half turn of the manila rope. The varnished wood groaned but held firm.

Scrambling back to the stern, he took over the steering.

Through the swirling fog, he could just make out a riffling line of white-capped water up ahead. “We must head for the center,” he muttered through clenched teeth. Praying that his pirate instincts were still sharp, he angled their vessel for the gap in the surf.

Kicked up by the crosscurrents, the waves steepened and slapped against the hull. The sloop shuddered and he saw Sophie hunch down inside her hooded coat, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

Despite his own inner turmoil, he managed an encouraging smile. “Remind me to tell you about the chase off the isle of Madagascar.”

“Can it wait until we are back on dry land?” she called back. “I would rather—”

The rest of her words were drowned in a clap of thunder.

A brilliant burst of lightning slashed across the sky, and for an instant the two sailing ships racing across the churning sea were brightly illuminated. As Cameron came back to take over handling the tiller, he caught sight of Morton on the bucking deck of the yacht, trying to take aim with a hunting rifle before darkness once again swallowed them up.

His arms were aching like the devil from fighting the currents, but somehow he held his course. Catching the crest of a wave, the sloop shot forward and skimmed through the opening in the treacherous rocks.
A scrape, a bounce, a shudder.
And then suddenly they were past the danger and back in the open sea.

Sophie expelled a whoop of excitement. “Oh, you did it, Cam! You are the very Prince of Pirates.”

“Just a marquess,” he called dryly.

With the prevailing winds forcing him out to sea, Cameron had to tack before venturing a look back.

“Bloody hell, even
I
wouldn’t be that reckless,” he muttered.

Sails drumming in the wind, hull surging through the eddying waters, the yacht was following in the sloop’s wake. Its long, dark bowsprit was cutting wildly through the mists, like a saber seeking to strike a mortal blow to an enemy.

For a moment, Cameron thought that his dare had failed. Outgunned and outmanned, he and Sophie had little hope of fighting off an attack at close quarters.

And then…

And then with a shuddering crack, the yacht’s mainmast snapped. In a tangle of canvas and ropes, it plunged into the sea, spinning the yacht in a yawing circle. Out of control, the hull smashed against a submerged rock, splintering the mizzen mast. It, too, fell in a jumble of cordage just as a large wave rose up and broke over the deck.

Foam flew through the air, streaking the darkness with a ghostly spray. A moment later, what remained of the battered yacht capsized.

“Good God.” Sophie let out a horrified gurgle as the wreckage sank beneath the swirling waters.

“Poetic justice, I suppose,” murmured Cameron as he stared into the darkness. “I wasn’t lying when I said that I had personal reasons for wishing to help you fight these men,” he added after a long moment. “This was the second time that Morton tried to destroy me. He was the blackguard who was beating the tavern girl—the smarmy weasel whose purse I took, and who then ran to Wolcott proclaiming me a thief.” The vortex of ink-black water spun round and round and round. “If you navigate through life using greed and evil as your compass, you deserve to founder on unseen shoals.”

Sophie nodded. “I cannot mourn Dudley and Morton,” she said in a tight voice. “But still, we should search for survivors.”

“I would if I could, Sunbeam. But it’s simply not possible to sail into the teeth of this storm,” replied Cameron. “Already the wind has risen to gale force. We must go with it and even then, we’ll be hard-pressed to keep ourselves afloat.” Seeing her stricken expression, he added, “The chances of finding anyone alive in that maelstrom are virtually nil.”

“Poor Neddy,” she murmured softly.

Cameron did not feel quite so charitable. “We must all live—or die—with the choices we make. Wadsworth knew right from wrong. So he must accept the consequences for his actions.” He shook a hank of sopping hair from his brow. “As I said, if you live by the proverbial sword, choosing to take by violence that which is not rightfully yours, you must be prepared to die by the sword.”

“You know, for all your devil-may-care bluster, you are the very soul of honor.” She turned and slid her arms around him in a fierce hug. “A hero in every sense of the word.”

“Don’t exaggerate my nobility, Sophie.” And yet, for all his carefully calculated detachment, he found her words lit an odd warmth in a certain region of his chest.

You are becoming a soft-hearted sentimentalist
, scoffed one of the demons in his head.

Yes, and what is so wrong with that?
he asked wryly.

Somewhat to his surprise, the demons and devils had no answer. Slinking away, their red-hot pitchforks melting into limp little twists of metal, they disappeared into the darkest crevasses of his brain.

“You
are
noble,” she said, pressing her lips to his stubbled cheek, “And I have the paper to prove it.”

“I never thought I would live to see the day…” The waves surged and tiller smacked into his side, nearly knocking them both overboard. “And I may not yet if we don’t keep our minds on the challenge at hand.” Cameron brushed a kiss to her brow, and then reluctantly released her. “I fear the blow is going to be a bad one. We will have to use every ounce of effort to keep ourselves afloat.”

Muttering under his breath, Gryff crunched his way over the piles of broken oyster shells and hurried back to the coach.

“No luck here, either?” asked Sophie’s uncle, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice.

“The fishermen of Lincolnshire and Yorkshire all seem to take fiendish delight in telling me that no vessel could make it to land in this storm,” grumbled Gryff. All of them were tired and testy. They had been traveling hard for nearly two days, following the coast road with precious few stops for rest or sustenance. “According to the fellows of this harbor, anyone caught out on the water when the gale started will likely end up in the Shetland Islands—or the arctic port of Spitzbergen.”

“We just have to keep going north,” said Georgiana stoutly. “The storm has to blow itself out sometime, and when it does, Sophie and Cameron will find a safe harbor.”

Hermione tried to smile, but worry was etched around her eyes.

Gryff and Connor exchanged glances, neither one giving voice to the increasingly obvious fact that the continuing violence of the ocean was fast sinking any chance of survival.

“Er, is Mr. Daggett an expert sailor?” asked Edward.

“He excels in any number of different skills,” replied Connor tersely.

A silence. “You did not say that sailing is one of them,” pointed out Georgiana.

Gryff cleared his throat with a cough. “Let us take some refreshment at the local inn while we arrange for a fresh team of horses. Then, if I may be so bold as to make a suggestion…”

“Please do, milord,” said Edward.

“Here is what I propose.” He slanted a look up at the leaden clouds, which showed no sign of lightening. “We all continue on to the Scottish border together. If we still haven’t found Miss Lawrance and Daggett by then, you three should return to Terrington to await word while Connor and I continue the search into the Highlands on horseback. The roads there are barely more than cart tracks and your coach would soon come to grief.”

Edward gave a reluctant nod. “That is a sensible plan, milord, and much as it hurts me to abandon the effort, I can’t argue that we would be more of a hindrance than a help.”

Hermione blew out a sigh.

“It can’t be helped, my dear,” said her husband.

“Well, I, for one, haven’t given up hope,” announced Georgiana. “If you knew some of the scrapes that Sophie and Cam have survived in the past, you might have a little more faith in their chances.”

At that, Gryff chuckled, the first show of amusement since the journey had begun. “Quite right, Miss Georgiana. Being intimately acquainted with Daggett’s uncanny knack of staying a hairsbreadth ahead of disaster, I shall, like you, remain optimistic.”

To Cameron’s dismay, his prediction regarding the storm’s strength proved all too true. For the next day and night he and Sophie battled the relentless elements, the rain, wind, and the surging seas all swirling together in an iron-gray blur. Wet, cold, exhausted, they stumbled through the arduous task of trimming the sails to keep the sloop from being broached by the waves, subsisting on old biscuits, moldy cheese, and a keg of cider that Sophie had found in one of the lockers.

Gray, gray, and more gray—there seemed to be no end to the raging storm in sight.

Muzzy from lack of sleep, Cameron had no idea where they were, save for the fact that the needle of the compass kept pointing relentlessly north. Rubbing his salt-reddened eyes, he felt himself drifting into a daze, despite the thrumming of the gusts against the taut canvas.

“Go below for a nap,” insisted Sophie. “I can handle the steering for a bit.”

“Maybe just for a short while,” he mumbled.

“Go!” she ordered, and this time he didn’t argue. Nodding off at the helm could spell disaster.

Cameron wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep, but he suddenly awoke with a start, aware that the motion of the sloop had changed dramatically. Scrambling up the hatchway, he found himself blinking into a blaze of diamond-bright sunlight. The wind had dropped to a gentle breeze and the water shimmered with shades of celestial blue.

“Look—oh, look!” Sophie was pointing to a faint line of gray cliffs just visible in the distance. “Land!”

Terra firma.

The sight of earth and stone, however hardscrabble, had never looked more divine.

“Let us haul these sails around one last time and head for shore.” Rubbing his chafed hands together, he moved to the tiller and altered course. “I don’t know about you, but for me a pot of coffee, hot and strong as the fires of Hell, would be nothing short of heavenly.”

I
look like a drowned muskrat.” Sophie looked down at her tattered dress and grimaced as the sloop glided into the calm waters of the cove. The salt-crusted muslin was liberally streaked with pine tar and pitch from the rigging. “And my hair must be more hideous than a tangle of smelly seaweed.”

Cameron scratched at his bristly chin. “Honesty compels me to admit that you are not shining with your usual light, Sunbeam.”

He wasn’t exactly a paragon of perfection, either, she observed. And yet somehow his disheveled appearance—scruffy beard, ripped shirt, windsnarled locks, raffish earring—looked sinfully dashing rather than woefully drab.

“I hope we do not frighten the locals,” she murmured. “They may think we are dreadful sea demons, spit up from Neptune’s underwater kingdom to wreak mischief here on land.”

“I’m sure they have seen much worse,” he quipped. “Like hairy horned Vikings in monstrous dragon ships.”

“I suppose we are not quite as threatening as that.” She patted back a yawn. “Any idea where we are?”

“Not a clue,” responded Cameron. The sloop nudged up against a weathered wharf piled high with fishing nets and eel traps. “And at the moment, the question is not of paramount importance. As long as there is a bed and blankets—preferably free of fleas—we could be in Xanadu or Hyderabad for all I care.”

“A bed,” repeated Sophie with a wistful sigh. “I am so fatigued that I may simply curl up on those burlap sacks and sleep for a day…or maybe a week.” The mention of time suddenly snapped her thoughts into sharper focus. “Oh, Lord. But the first thing I must do is send word to Georgie—”

“Rest assured that I’ll have a message sent, but not until I get you tucked between the sheets,” said Cameron, lifting her unresisting body up to the slatted walkway.

“Oh, I can’t think of a more blissful suggestion.” Even if she had wanted to, Sophie was too tired to protest.

“No?” His brows gave a suggestive waggle. “I may have to refresh your memory. But that, too, can wait until later.” He finished snugging the mooring lines to a set of brass cleats and then took her hand. “Come, there looks to be an inn across the way.”

Happy to cede all decisions to him, Sophie floated along in a fog of fatigue, oblivious to the curious stares from townsfolk gathered around the harbor market stalls. Cameron’s negotiations with the innkeeper were naught but a vague buzz…and she wasn’t quite sure how she managed to move her feet on the stairs. All she knew was that somehow her half boots came off with a plop and a soft woolen blanket dropped over her shoulders.

And then sleep—blessed, blessed sleep—wrapped itself around her weary body.

How long she lingered in sweet oblivion was impossible to gauge. All she knew was that the room was dappled in pale morning sunshine when she awoke.

“Ah, back from the world of Morpheus?” murmured Cameron, drawing her into his arms.

“Mmmm.” She gave a little stretch. “Yes, but I was having such delightful dreams.”

“Oh?” He nibbled at the shell of her ear. “Of what?”

“Shirred eggs, a rasher of bacon, hot scones slathered with butter and jam,” she murmured. “And an ocean of steaming hot tea…though to be honest, if I never see an ocean again, I shall not be disappointed.”

“And here I was hoping that your fantasies were straying to other appetites.”

Sophie felt a blush steal over her face, suddenly conscious of the fact that he was in bed with her, and wearing only his drawers. “Now that you mention it…” she began.

“Hush.” He silenced her with a light touch of his lips. “Much as I would like to tempt you into sin, I have an even more sensuous treat in store for you. Wait here.” He rose and moved to the washstand set in the shadow of the painted armoire.

Crockery clinked, releasing a wafting of heavenly aromas. A moment later he returned to the bed bearing a large tray heaped with food and drink.

“Cam!” The word was slightly muffled by a mouthful of muffin. “Your friends are right—you are a creature with unearthly powers. Who else but a magician could conjure a feast from a pitcher of cold water?”

“There’s a far more mundane explanation. The innkeeper’s wife took pity on us poor, lost bairns.” He passed her a plate of eggs and toast. “By the by, I also ordered up a bath. I assume you would like to wash the salt and sea grit from your skin.”

“You are
truly
a magician.” Sophie blew out a sigh after sipping her tea. “Now, if only you could wave a wand and make a freshly laundered gown appear out of thin air.”

“Sorry. That’s beyond my repertoire of skills,” replied Cameron. “But would you settle for a new garment? The selection was rather limited at the local shops, but I found a shade of dusky blue that will look quite lovely with your eyes.” He pulled a paper-wrapped parcel from beneath the bed. “I’ve also added a few other essentials. I made an educated guess as to size.”

A roguish smile. Which she covered with a cinnamon-dusted kiss. “I’m not sure which is more delicious,” she murmured. “You or this spiced fruit shortbread.”

“I’ll be around long after you’ve swallowed the last sultana.”

Oh, how I wish that you would be by my side…forever.

A lump formed in her throat, turning the taste of sweetness to ashes. Cameron made her laugh. And all too soon he would make her cry. She would return to her family cottage and he would head off to…wherever a Pirate Prince called home.

Forcing herself to swallow her heartache, she looked up. “Thank you for the clothing.”

A questioning pinch pulled his brows together, but before he could respond, a knock thumped on the door.

Donning trousers and shirt—he, too, had acquired new clothing—Cameron went to open the door.

Two young serving maids lugged in buckets of hot water, and after several trips back and forth from the kitchens, the copper tub behind the bathing screen was filled. They flounced away in a flutter of blushes and giggles brought on by Cameron’s dark-lashed wink, leaving a cloud of sweet-scented steam rising up to the ceiling.

“I swear, you could seduce the Devil’s Serpent out of his scaly skin,” said Sophie, watching the swish of skirts disappear and the door fall shut.

“I would much rather convince you to shed that salt-stiff rag you are wearing. It must be dreadfully itchy.”

Her skin began to prickle under his lazy, lidded gaze. She drew in a lungful of the moist air, savoring the subtle perfume of rosemary and heather. “You won’t have to twist my arm.”

“What a pity. I was looking forward to manipulating your lovely limbs.”

“I doubt that it would be very amorous wrestling with a bedraggled sea-witch.” Feeling a little shy, Sophie scooted out of bed, grasping the blanket to her chest. “The odor of brine and fishscales does not strike me as an aphrodisiac.”

“I purchased some soap made with wild Highland heather and honey,” murmured Cameron. “Along with a soft sponge. It’s all there by the tub.”

A gurgle of longing escaped from her lips.

“If it feels too wantonly wild to disrobe in front of me, you may do so behind the screen. I won’t look.” He paused. “Well, maybe just a peek.”

Sophie was already scurrying to the shelter of the screen. “How on earth did you manage such luxuries?” she called as she tugged the remains of her gown over her head and kicked it into the corner. “I left my reticule in Morton’s coach and your purse was lost overboard.” Her shift followed. “Aside from the lone farthing that you found in your pocket, we haven’t any money.”

“I am a very persuasive fellow,” answered Cameron. “And I’ve a good deal of experience in making up stories. There was a time when I was penniless in the port of Genoa and managed to convince one of the wealthy merchants there that I was the son of a Hapsburg prince, kidnapped in childhood by Barbary pirates. Enthralled by the detailed description of my escape from a desert palace and subsequent commandeering of a corsair ship, in which I outfought my pursuers before finally sinking within sight of the Italian coast, he lent me a King’s ransom so that I could continue my journey home to Vienna.”

“It appears that your tongue is as skilled as your fingers at pressing all the right little levers and gears,” she said dryly.

“With all due modesty, I can spin a yarn of dastardly villains, a perilous adventure, and a long-lost heir that rivals those of Mrs. Radcliffe.”

“A pity you did not write it down. Given their current taste in reading, Georgie and Pen would be enthralled by such a story.” Sophie let out a little purr of pleasure as she eased her now-naked body into the steamy water. “Oh, dear. Speaking of my sisters—”

“A message has been dispatched to Terrington.”

“Thank you, Cam.” Picking up the sponge and soap, Sophie lathered up a froth of sweet-smelling bubbles and squeezed, letting a drizzle run down between her breasts.
Oh, bliss.
“What would I ever do without you?” she murmured, trailing the sponge down the arch of her neck. “This is heavenly—I may be here for hours, for I intend to scrub every last inch of my skin.”

“Hmmm, then I may need to offer my services.” He stepped behind the screen. “You can’t reach that spot on the very center of your back.”

She sank beneath the bubbles. “What a naughty suggestion,” she scolded. “You know, you really ought not come in here. We are back in the real world now and must have a care about shamelessly flouting the rules of Society.”

“I ought not do a lot of things, Sunbeam. But by now you know that I am incorrigible.”

“Wickedly so,” said Sophie. And then, seeing the glint in his eye as he stared at the swirls of water, she suddenly felt a little wicked herself.
To the Devil with propriety. The rules could wait until her return home.
For the moment, she would pretend they were in an exotic land, where the customs and strictures were different from those in England.

Lifting a leg high in the air, she slowly drew the sponge down its length.

“You,” he said in a softly smoky voice, “are inviting Trouble to take over your toilette.”

Yes, and Trouble had never sounded so alluring. “Well, in that case, can Trouble reach that pesky place on my back?” she asked. “It’s beginning to itch.”

“Hmmm.” Cameron shucked off his new shirt. “That may take a bit of maneuvering.” He moved behind her and Sophie heard the sound of his trousers slithering down over his thighs.

I am bad. Very bad.

“Hand me the sponge, Sunbeam.”

She passed it back, her flesh already tingling in anticipation.

The sudsing of the soap set off a gossamer gurgle.

“You will have to sit up and bend forward,” said Cameron, perching a hip on the edge of the tub.

Feeling deliciously decadent, Sophie did as she was told. She knew—oh, yes, she knew—that it was sinful to savor such intimacies. But…

But I don’t regret it.
Not for an instant.

“Is the itch here?” asked Cameron, massaging the sponge along her left shoulderblade. “Or here?” His touch teased down her spine.

“Mmmm.” Her body was humming with pleasure. “I can’t remember.”

“Then I had better be sure to scratch every spot.” His lips, warm and wet with the swirling steam, pressed against the nape of her neck. “You had better shift just a little so I can reach…”

Sophie sucked in her breath as he slid his hands down the soap-slickened slope of her shoulders and drew her closer. They lingered for a moment on her arms before tickling across her ribs to cup her breasts.

“We ought not neglect the front of your person,” he murmured. “And then, ministering to every speck of skin means I might have to suckle your toes.”

The sound in her throat deepened to a moan.

Cameron chuckled. “But the toes can wait.” He released her just long enough to find the bar of herb-flecked soap.
Rough and smooth
. The texture teased against her nipple, sending shivers of fire coursing to her core. Switching to her other breast, he repeated the slow, circling rub.

“No more seaweed and salt,” he whispered. “You are perfumed with heather and honey.” Inhaling deeply, he added, “It makes me think of sunlight dancing through wild meadow grasses.”

Pale plumes of steam twined with the curling strands of his hair. “And you,” she replied, “are scented with bay rum and…is that brandy on your breath?”

“The local whisky,” corrected Cameron with a husky chuckle. “The innkeeper insisted I join him in a glass of his special malt as he listened to the story of our travails. As for the bay rum cologne—which by the by is from Floris, the famous scentmaker in London—it was forgotten by a previous guest. Mr. McGregor insisted I avail myself of it when he arranged a bath for me earlier in one of the unused inn rooms. I didn’t wish to wake you.”

“Is there anyone you can’t charm with your silver tongue?” asked Sophie, tilting back her head to inhale another whiff of his beguiling fragrance.

Cameron captured her mouth in a long, lush kiss. “My tongue,” he said after a lengthy interlude, “is only interested in charming one person in particular. Is it having any luck?”

Sophie touched her lips to his. “Ask me later.”

After a rather lengthy interlude, the water stirred in a shimmering vortex as she twisted around in the copper tub, drawing her knees beneath her so she could face him. His chest was glistening with moisture, the droplets clinging to the peppering of dark curls looking like tiny pearls in the silvery haze of light. Pressing her palms to the chiseled contours of his ribs, Sophie leaned in and licked a bead of water from his sun-bronzed skin.

A deeply masculine sound rumbled in his chest. “I like your growls,” she said, licking again.

“Sophie.” Cameron caught her face between his lithe hands. “I’ll soon be howling to the heavens if you continue that.”

“I like your howls, too,” she answered. The heat of him felt so good.
So good.
Trailing a hand down his flat belly, she dipped a finger into his navel. “Even your barks.”

His inhale was more like a groan.

With a throaty laugh, Sophie tickled her touch lower.

“Don’t. Tempt. Me.” He rose, pulling her up with him in a froth of splashing water and rainbow bubbles.